


nostos (winter’s end)

by sunsongs



Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Banter, Families of Choice, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, mentioned Peking Duck/Buddha’s Temptation, mentioned Yuxiang/Spicy Gluten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23251564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsongs/pseuds/sunsongs
Summary: Peking Duck learns to let go.Treasure all that is transient. Make a moment last millennia; remember it for another. To live as a food soul is largely solitary existence, for they always seem to end up alone.But no, you are beginning to realize. You have each other.
Relationships: Peking Duck & Bamboo Smoke Pawnshop, Peking Duck & Master Attendant, Peking Duck & Plum Juice, Peking Duck & Yuxiang
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	nostos (winter’s end)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChewingstonChew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChewingstonChew/gifts).



> For Chewy. 
> 
> Thanks for everyone who's looked over my snippets/cheered me on along the way. Thank you, FF Lesbiabs! You mean a lot to me. 
> 
> A special thank you to Chewy for trading ideas through my rambles! This wouldn't be here without you.

**PEKING**   
  


When you laugh, not a sound escapes from your lips. This mirth is the kind that makes you cover your mouth, fingers splayed on your cheek and bridge of your nose, as if to stifle the sound. It stems from habit, perhaps, from your days under the magistrate. 

Habit winds its way into your gentle tone with the younger food souls, the softness of your indulgent smiles. (The echo of memory will never escape you, will it?) It’s fortunate your well of patience runs deep, as you are often elected to look after the little ones - despite how formidable a force you make in battle. 

Ume Ochazuke is always there to assist, however, and for that, you are grateful. Her stories never fail to make you laugh; you listen with rapt attention as she recounts her pranks, especially when it comes to Boston Lobster. Just for the amusement it brings, you say, but she gives you a knowing gaze. She is well aware you are taking mental notes. 

You are not afraid to be firm in employing discipline, rare as that may be. The younger food souls are good children, after all. (Just like your master’s son. So filial, that child. You watched as he swept his father’s grave at the Qingming Festival, the scent of joss sticks lingering in the April air. How he held a willow branch in hand to ward off wandering spirits, bowed his head and said a prayer through his tears.)

The sounds of pleased quacking greet your ears. You hum, contented. The children are excitable, today - struggling to escape your sleeves, eager to greet Hawthorne Ball and Jiuniang. When you watch them coo and giggle over the antics of your children, you know you have chosen well. You allow them their fun, though not beyond your watchful eye. 

So small. So soft. Fledgeling chicks, fluttering into their first flights. You will do what you must, spreading your wings to shield them, safeguarding them from harm. 

* * *

At times, your laughter is difficult to distinguish from lamentation. Rime coats the barren branches of the tree outside your study. Snow falls so softly, you would think it could do no harm — but mourning is just prevalent as mirth. (You remember dimming lanterns painted in dark ink. You were not the only one grieving. You wondered, what was worse? Igniting flames of blind devotion to false gods, or hope dimming to but a dying ember?)

You are well aware Plum Juice knows of your food caches, scattered along the crevices of the Pawnshop. How can he not? He is in charge of calculating every expense of the business, no matter how minute. (As he reminds you and Yuxiang. Constantly. He rolls his eyes at the sizable budget allotted towards tobacco, but knows how irritable you get without.) Even so, he does not chide you for it. He understands how grief can be, having seen it firsthand. 

(It is the same with Yuxiang and her books, fingers skimming myriad tomes for something tangible. Asking for a touch to anchor her, to trace the calluses on her hands and say it is proof that she is real. Whispering, wondering, afraid. I don’t want to fade away. You reassure her that she would not. You made sure of it.)

You do not require sustenance. You reason it’s for any unfortunate travelers, but you cannot even fool yourself.

(Throngs of devotees crowd the once deserted streets. In the morning, you can hear the sound of chanting, haggard voices whispering, weeping, begging. You don’t bother listening anymore. You don’t need to listen to know. How great our god is, they cry. You wonder: is it a prayer, or is it a desperate plea?

You could count the child’s ribs as she lay on the altar, the heady scent of hallucinogenic herbs dizzying. You almost wish you were hallucinating. (Maybe then, she would smile again. Maybe then, you wouldn’t have to mourn another.) The girl that had once asked you so many questions, looking after your children with the sweetest smile, was silent. If her hand was not so cold, you would have thought her fast asleep.)

Never again. You have the resources to spare others from the same miserable fate; it would be shameful not to use them. 

* * *

You despise the stench of ritual incense for the memories it brings to mind. Once burned, it lingers for days after, haunting you with its sickly-sweet smoke. 

You close your eyes, the sight of innumerable coins in the offering box seared into your mind. The sight had been like a knife twisting in your gut, vivisecting viscera. It was a slap to the face. With the town in such a wretched condition, how could someone bear to profit…?! The nerve! You snatch coin after coin, gathering them into a pouch for the children, for your people. Your master cared not to spend a cent for himself, and you had always followed his example.

It was your master who looked you in the eye and said: I will not run. 

What kind of torment is this? you wondered, watching the all you held dear be reduced to ashes. You could have stopped it. How you yearned to save him, but you did not dare disrespect his wishes. 

Listen, or don’t. What difference would it make? An honorable man falls. He does not make a sound. (Only you knew how he met your eyes and smiled. It was the kind that would bring no regrets to his grave.)

You made that wretched kingdom know of his sacrifice, in a manner they would never forget. (Their screams echo in your mind for years after. You try to drown them out with smoke, to no avail. All you can taste are ashes.)

You had laughed, then, bleak and half hysterical. You had heard once that April was the cruelest month, but it is already winter. You cannot think of anything more cruel than this. You laugh until you cannot tell the tears from mirth, freezing on your face in the bitter, bitter cold. 

* * *

You have never seen the sea. It is one of the few similarities you shared with your master, who never asked for time off to travel the distance. Master told you he could hardly afford to be negligent, for the sake of his people. 

(If anyone needed a break, you’d sighed ruefully, it was him.)

Master had always wanted to see the sea, but never had a chance. Years later, you take your master’s ashes to the shore.

* * *

First and foremost, there is one thing you must know.

There is an urn in Peking’s study that no one, on the pain of death, dares touch. 

It is all he has left of his Master.

* * *

It’s in the midst of winter when Peking announces he is taking a vacation. 

“A sabbatical, if you will,” he informs the rather exasperated Plum Juice, who thought himself immune to the other’s antics, “take care of things for me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he responds, resigned to his fate. He bids his boss an amiable farewell all the same.

“Make sure Plum Juice doesn’t go grey from stress, hm? I’m counting on you.” Peking rests a hand on Yuxiang’s shoulder, and she smiles back.

“Don’t take too long. His blood pressure can only skyrocket so high,” laughs Yuxiang, and he chuckles in turn.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

To Pancake, it’s a ruffle of the hair and a reminder. “Make sure Hawthorne Ball doesn’t spend half her spending money on pineapple rice again, for me?” 

The boy gives him a mock-salute and an enthusiastic, “Got it, boss!” 

Last is Hawthorne Ball, who looks up at Peking with a pout.

“You better not be out there doing bad things. ‘Specially if I’m not there to keep you in line!” 

“I’ll be sure to accomplish as many villainous deeds as I can.”

Before she can insist on accompanying him, just for that remark, Peking crouches down to her height. He smiles and meets her eye before he speaks.

“Aiya, xiǎo mèi, so serious. I am just joking with you.” Peking ruffles her hair, easygoing as always. “I’m just doing a favor for an old friend. Keep defeating evil while dà gē is out, alright? But only if Yuxiang or Plum Juice are there with you. A sidekick is a must, yes?” 

Hawthorne beams when she responds. Her smile’s bright enough to power Light Kingdom and have energy to spare. 

It’s one of the most cheerful goodbyes Peking has ever seen. 

* * *

  
  
  


The tides ebb and flow, their undulations reminiscent of his master attendant’s rambles in his sleep: that rhythmic voice, rising and falling in synchrony with his stomach. 

Peking would always chuckle to himself before settling a blanket over his master’s shoulders with a smile; he would have to keep the incident in mind to tease him about later. Master had been working himself to the bone again, as always - drowsing in the midst of slogging through the ever-growing thicket of red tape and paperwork. 

The scent of brine is not overly strong in the balmy air; the sea breeze is a pleasant reprieve. He could almost convince himself that the only salt here was the sea, were it not for his stinging eyes - hot as the tea master attendant warned, sighing as Peking scalded his tongue even then. The magistrate sent him a stern look: all iron and no sympathy...before crumpling moments later.

“My, that tongue of yours may be sharp as knives,” Peking chuckled. His smile was sly, fox-like: all fangs bared, but with little bite. “But that heart? Soft as tofu.” 

“...Drink your tea,” was all the magistrate said in response, shaking his head in fond exasperation. “Heart of tofu, huh...how embarrassing. Save me some face, won’t you?”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” Peking teased, drinking in the fragrance of jasmine, enjoying its heat. He always loved playing with fire; heedless of consequences, he’d fan the flames just to watch them climb, “Ma~ster.”

The magistrate was only beginning to discover the untapped depths of his newfound patience. Peking had loved testing those limits, until the day he could not bear to. The day his master begged him to go, he was helpless to obey his every order - what else was he to do?

The urn weighs heavy in his hands, yet he dares not loosen his white-knuckled hold. It is a burden he (deserves, some part of his mind snarls) would willingly bear.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, a solitary figure on the shore. Perhaps it is to the ashes. Perhaps it is to himself. “Yet so very lonely, is it not?” 

There is no answer but the call of gulls and the shift of sand beneath his unsteady feet.

...Haha, what a fool he is.  
  
There is no penance (here, or anywhere) that can grant him absolution, no heavenly gates allowing him entry. (Even then - would he be able to forgive himself?) There is no feeling of accomplishment as he fulfills his master’s dying wishes, the way humans marveled in so many stories - reverent in their quiet wonder. 

Those stories were always filled with happy endings he will never be granted — because they were human, and he was not. Because they were deserving, and he was not. Because he was born to a race destined to bow their heads in subservience to another, one that expected them to dance to their every whim. Humans were luckier than they could ever know: winning the grand roulette spin of fate, crying out in confusion even as they wailed senselessly at birth.

(How helpless, they were. How weak. Without a summon to safeguard them, they were easy prey for the Fallen. Skulking in the periphery of his vision, the crawling sensation of their taint is a grim reminder of what he could have been. Ah, the impulse has seized him yet again.

Is it innate, this desire to annihilate every threat to their contracted’s well-being? How tenuous the divide; how well defined is the line between genuine desire and a contract’s mandate? Never has he been more grateful that he and his master’s interests align.)

What was he looking for? Some sort of misguided absolution, some semblance of peace? He knew there was nothing for him here, yet here he was: sifting through the hourglass sands to reclaim a memory of what he had lost. To create new memories Master would have wanted to see. 

Anything to stave off this endless feeling of emptiness. He laughs, a wretched, ragged sound that rends the air before venting his frustrations out on the glass bottles littering the shore. He half-watches them shatter before his eyes, drifting between memory and reality. What a pair they made: all glimmering, gleaming edges, so much like his already fractured psyche. 

Sweeping the shards into the trash, he couldn’t help but wonder if the sound they made was the same a heart makes, when it has had too much to bear.

(If a heart breaks and none are there to hear it, does it still make a sound?)

He was not human. He never would be. It was a fact he could never quite accept, and perhaps never will be able to. Such wounds may close, but the scars will never fade; perhaps they are destined only to be reopened. Ah, for one granted with enough power to level mountains, there was so little he was able to do, in the end.

Did he fancy himself a god? Don’t make him laugh. What god was unable to protect the one thing he held dear?

This wicked world was so very cold, yet humans found warmth in companionship. This loathsome world was so very cruel, yet humans found comfort in kindness. Food souls were brought into this world, be it on a whim or wish. They were born to fight; they were born fighting. To take up sword and shield for another, without expecting any payment in return.  
  
Unfair, was it not? Yet, the world kept turning. No food soul bemoaned the injustice of it all; they kept their lips sealed shut for all they suffered. If they all spoke out, even with a quiet voice - he knew that it would not match the volume of a single human’s.  
  
For their worth was not the same of one of their own. Food souls could come back, couldn’t they? So humans said as they used food souls as their shield, their servant, their weapon, granting them no more respect than a cowering dog. Never asking: is this what you want?  
  
No, he could never think himself a god. Enacting vengeance in a fury befitting of a phoenix, rising again and again from the ashes, undying. But he would bestow judgement to all that he could, until those sinners crawled and begged and pleaded for mercy he would never grant. (Mercy his master had never been granted.)  
  
Blood stained his hands; just like old times, he couldn’t help but murmur to the ashes, to himself. Humans went missing every day; none would miss the likes of them. It was better this way, he mused idly, itching fiercely for a smoke.

And so, the world kept turning.

* * *

Perhaps it wasn’t the healthiest way to cope, but it was all he had. Clinging desperately to the fading remnants of his sanity, before the waves swept every remaining grain into the endless sea. Before the winds scattered them to the ends of the earth, and none could catch him when he Fell.

(Running away is easy. You leave the pawnshop for weeks on end, with only a note left behind. Visiting the places your master had loved, even if they were in different cities — you could see the same smiles, hear the same music. The folk songs his wife had sang to their son, and your master joining in. No one sang it like he had, off-key as it was...somehow, it still filled you with such warmth.)

What would you do, Master? He asked the ashes. There was no answer.

* * *

**PEKING**

Are you asleep? Are you awake? (What difference would it make, when your Master is gone?)

You dream, and wake to the sound of water. There is no salt tang to the mild breeze, only cricket-song and chattering birds. 

You Master stands in the middle of a wooden pier, watching the subtle, slow sway of lotuses on the water’s surface and the quicksilver dart of fish. He’s whistling the same tune he always has, though he never told you the name. 

You watch ripples form on the water’s surface, unable to speak. What would you say? You want to run to him, even if you know this is only a shadow of himself. Bathed in light, a picture of the divine that had descended to earth. It rekindles an old ache, setting the old burn scars alight. (Even you didn’t escape from the fires you lit unscathed. There was always a price to pay for power.)

Your heart swells with a tumult of emotion. Waging war within you, your heart races, pounding in your ears. It slows. It aches. 

Master smiled and spoke, features limned in golden light. Venerable and ethereal. 

His words were more cutting than any knife. 

“You are a coward.”

Something cracks, the grit of glass glittering against your palms. Something shatters. (Your heart?) 

The water freezes over, crackling, creaking like hinges left long unoiled, a door to memories you feared opening for so, so long. Your lungs burn at the dryness of winter air, moisture escaping with every breath. You wonder if you stay here long enough, will you become a paper-thin husk? Hollowed out like dried flowers, preserved forever in your endless grief.

The sky is clearer than thrice-polished silverware, clear enough for those thrice-damned aristocrats to admire their reflections in. Any water remaining in the air crystallizes, glittering stardust. So why is your vision blurring? 

You know for a fact winter nights are the longest. (When will spring come again?) Maybe it’s why this winter never seems to end. 

Your heart sinks and sinks, breaks the surface of brittle ice and drowns in the brutal cold, pumping frost through your veins in place of blood. Even your ever-smiling facade stills and shatters as you desperately, frantically gather the shards once more. You try to fit the mismatched puzzle pieces together but they’re not fitting, even when you slather their ends in dollar-store glue.

Because you know your Master is right. No matter how much you’d like to deny it. 

How far you have fallen: high on your throne of self-righteousness, you have delivered judgment. Immaculate in every sense of the word, you had once meticulously attended to your appearance in the days with the magistrate. Although not vain to an excess, you took pride in its maintenance.

Now, you care not for how you look. Hand you not a gleaming mirror - were you given one, you cannot say you could resist the urge to shatter it, in all its infuriating perfection. 

Looking back into eyes wild with a maelstrom of emotion you dare not name...would be more than you could take. 

Jagged notes of ragged laughter split and rend the winter air, chords dissonant and bleak. There is no return to consonance, no resolution.

“Master, if only you could see me now.”

Master was dead. He wasn’t ever coming back. So why did your heart ache, like salt spray stinging in an open wound? 

You stand in the cold and embrace it. The brisk, bitter wind whipping at your face, freezing your lashes and tears before they fall, stinging at the chill. The sound of ice creaking in the distance seems so very far away. 

Winter holds you steadfast, and you let it.

* * *

**YUXIANG**

Close your eyes. Can you see it? Can you hear it? 

Intertwined before you are thousands of threads: some pooling at your feet, unwinding from their myriad spools. Others intertwine with others mid-air, radiant against the dark. 

Listen for it. Feel for the constant throb, the metronymic pulse.

Seek it. The tether, the golden thread that binds your soul and his, tied to your core.

Trace it. Follow the glimmering connection to its source. Pay no mind to external stimuli.

(“Mister Plum, Mister Plum! Does Miss Yuxiang really know where Mister Peking is?” Seems like Hawthorne Ball’s being inquisitive, as always. Just as you had once been, you mused. You’ll have to ensure she never meets the same fate.

Pancake doesn’t say a word from Hawthorne’s side, but he’s clearly eavesdropping. Plum Juice looks like he’s wondering if anyone had bothered teaching the boy subtlety. Children...

“I have faith in her capabilities. So should you, little one.” Plum Juice pauses, glasses glinting. “Just how eager are you to be assigned book-sorting duty, hm? Need you a reminder of just how capable our resident bibliophile is?”

“Mister Plu-um!! I didn’t mean it like that…”

“Oh? Do enlighten me, then…”)

Focus, focus. Scour the cloud-piercing peaks for any trace of that brilliant warmth, crisp and cold. Sift along every sun-drenched shore, balmy and soaked with salt and light.

You take care not to intrude into the memories strewn across your path on the way, images flickering like film. You do your best not to listen to the snatches of song or snippets of conversation in the background, dismissing them as white noise. He has his own secrets to keep, stories that are only his to tell. 

You respect his privacy, as he does yours - but you cannot help but worry. He’s been gone longer than usual, this time.

(That stubborn fool, always taking on everything on his own. The man had been acting distant...at least, more so than usual.

Winter always cast a spell on him. Its chill crept into his voice and mannerisms, and he would leave suddenly -- for months at a time, at most. He would disappear to his hometown with little more notice than a note. You have your own demons, but he has his ghosts. 

But gods, if there was anything the man was bad at...He was never good at letting go. 

You’re a living example of that.) 

* * *

**PEKING DUCK**

Half your immortal life has been wasted dreaming, you muse. Wasted wondering the what-ifs. Succumbing to the sweet addiction of living off memories, the fleeting happiness daydreams bring. 

Your face is wet when you wake. You look to the sky from where you’d fallen into the grasp of ghosts of your own making, and feel haunted still. There is not a sign of rain. 

For once, your tendency toward antiquated practices comes to good use. This handkerchief had not always been yours, after all.

(“My, I look the part of a slighted lover on the receiving end of some sordid affair.” The magistrate was dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief, embroidered with love. ...Of all the times to pull out a gift from his wife. 

You remember his tendency for the dramatic with fondness...how easily his heart was moved, be it by stray kittens or the tragedy at hand, unfolding through every fluid movement of an operatic act.

“Do you ever think before you speak?” 

“You of little faith!” A scandalized gasp, a hand covering his mouth. “You think I would ever…!”

“This country would burn before it would come to that.” 

“And you call _me_ dramatic…”)

Haha. Seems like you can’t ever escape. Even so, you wouldn’t give up these memories for anything.

You blink at the sound of quacking and the sensation of soft down brushing against your ankles. Hadn’t you asked Yuxiang to look after the children? How had they ended up here? 

You can’t help but laugh as they squirm, settling in the folds of your billowing sleeves. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed their warmth.

* * *

**PLUM JUICE**

Where has the master wandered off to now? 

Master Peking Duck made no secret of his night-hunts, decimating the number of Fallen in the surrounding area in the span of a single night. You could always hear the quiet creak of the door as he departed, his sole companion the moon’s unblinking eye. 

He always returned the next morning, smiling and pristine, but Yuxiang always tsked at his singed sleeves the moment the children left the room. (Hawthorne Ball and Pancake, that is. Not the ducklings.) You suppose it did wonders for the safety of neighboring villages, even if more Fallen would eventually take their place. 

But could he really go on like this forever? 

You weren’t sure how your boss would get on without you and Yuxiang. The entire business would’ve likely gone up in flames. Literally and figuratively. 

What would he do without you, indeed…

You remember the night he’d walked through the door with his typical stride, brisk and businesslike. But as soon as he caught sight of you, he knew there was no use hiding the sway to his steps, the flush to his cheeks. The scent of rice wine on his skin, the uncharacteristically vivid emotions he typically hid flickering across his face for all to see.

“Have you been out drinking again?” 

Good thing you’d left the children (the ducklings, this time) with Yuxiang. Master was in no state to care for them.

“And what if I had been?” Remarkable how much the man tried to hide it. There was no doubt that Master was inebriated, from how long he had taken to respond.

You rolled your eyes, but offered the chair beside you for him to sit. You guided him by the arm, just in case. The master would voice his distaste for being seen in such a state, but there was no helping it. 

“My apologies. I don’t make a habit of… disrespecting the… dead. You’ll have to forgive me… just this once.”

“Rest assured. My soul power still flares bright as your tobacco addiction. Mind you, it burns through our funds just as swiftly.”

“Don’t… talk nonsense…” The master’s assessing stare was intense, but his typically piercing gaze drifted beyond your features. Seeing someone else, eyes glazed. His Master Attendant.

“... You never listen, do you?” You sigh, laying a hand on your boss’s shoulder. “I suppose there’s no convincing you, then.”

A sardonic chuckle. The master sounds tired, like he hadn’t slept well in a long time. Like he doubts he ever will. “You know I’ve always been a stubborn one, Master.”

… Just this once, you’ll allow him this farce. 

The master’s breath hitches, his hair falling around his face like a mourning veil when he speaks. “My apologies. I… wanted to save you, in spite of your wishes. Selfish, I’m aware. But… I can’t help but dream of a future with you by my side. I’ll keep dreaming for both of us.”

This again? Perhaps you have no right to intrude. This appears to be a deeply personal matter, but… you can’t bear seeing Master Peking going on like this. He would rather collapse mid-conference from sleep deprivation than tell anyone of his insomnia. Food souls did not require sleep as humans did, certainly, but even immortals had to recuperate in the aftermath of battle.

Insufferable, incorrigible spendthrift. Master tactician he may be, and power he may hold in spades… he never shared his burdens until he threatened to crumble under their weight. 

You may not hold astronomical power in your hands like your master does, but you have a perfectly serviceable shoulder to lean on.

“Live for me, then,” you sigh, exasperation evident in every syllable. “Do not allow vengeance to consume you until naught’s left but ashes. Stare too long, and you’ll forget those precious to you in the present. How long will you live blinded by regret, hm?” 

“Hah… You always say that. You never change…”

“Perhaps if I say it enough, my words will make it into that skull of yours. Your family’s concerned for your sake, you know. Don’t leave them waiting, and… aiyah, don’t worry about this old man. I’ll be just fine.”

“Family, hm… ?”

You remember. One summer, the intolerable heat made even Yuxiang forgo the boa wound fashionably around her arms, while Peking Duck had shed his fur-lined outer layer. Hawthorne Ball and Pancake were largely unfazed, trailing behind the pawn shop's older employees. Their cheeks were comically stuffed -- they both looked like hamsters, competing for who could finish their portion of steamed pork buns first. 

You’d summoned several cups and sent them floating through the air to your fellows without spilling a drop, filled to the brim with your namesake drink, The mostly-tart, partly-sweet beverage is popular among Light Kingdom locals for cooling off, but not a single resident seems to notice, caught up in crying their wares or perusing the market stalls.

“What would I do without you?” mused Master Peking, a smile curling his lips as he reached out to pluck the cup from the sweltering air. He put the cup to his lips, drinking deep.

“Go bankrupt,” you said bluntly. No hesitation, no holding back.

The master sighed. He looked seconds away from facepalming, but there was no refuting the fact.

Yuxiang would deny this to anyone you threaten to tell this sordid tale to later, but contrary to her elegance -- she’d choked on her drink and started laughing between hacking coughs, drawing questioning stares from concerned passersby. 

Ah, you thought, more blackmail material -- but only after making sure you didn’t have to demonstrate the Heimlich maneuver to a live audience. 

Often, Hawthorne Ball and Pancake would ask the master for stories. For a moment, he would eye the paperwork piling up on his desk, and you’d think he’d refuse. But he’d taken one look at their pleading eyes and sighed, willpower crumbling. “Just one, hm? If you crave further entertainment, I think Yuxiang and Plum Juice will have plenty to tell.”

You shot him a dark look for dragging you into this, but really… a few tales would not take up too much of your time. And besides… 

You wouldn’t give up those smiles for anything.

So you pray the master realizes all that he’s missing. Blazing a path through Fallen-infested forests leaves him too worn out to tell Hawthorne Ball and Pancake tales in the evening, and hunting down cults leads to the master leaving the pawnshop for days on end. He typically accompanies his “business partner” and informant. His letters are always accompanied with gifts like a book Yuxiang had requested or an intricately painted paper fan for Hawthorne Ball.

You suspect the master’s relationship with his business partner is more than strictly professional, judging by the fond note in his voice when he speaks of this “Buddha’s Temptation.” 

Yuxiang would tease the master six days to Sunday if she knew. You’ve made the tactical decision to keep quiet -- you’d rather not incite the master’s wrath, even when he always seems in better spirits than usual after his cult hunts. Cult hunting as a means of courting? Well. The master had always been unorthodox.

It’s one less reason for you to worry, you suppose. The master’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but he has a reckless streak that can stretch from Nozokyo to Nevras. 

It’s a weight off your shoulders to know he’s in good hands. 

* * *

**PEKING DUCK**

Fluffy feathers nuzzle against your cheek: ducklings scrabbling up your shoulders, snuggling into your billowing sleeves. Fledgeling stars, simmering against your skin. Softness to blunt the sharpness of the biting cold. You feel something in you unwind. 

Yuxiang must be here, you realize, hearing the soothing notes echo across the sand. Only the two of you can hear the melody -— the golden thread of your connected souls.

“Our song,” you tell the children, chuckling as their feathers brush against the bare skin of your neck. You’ve always mourned the loss of what little rest you gained on the rare nights of dreamless sleep, roused from a tangle of sheets to the sounds of your children. They always chose the oddest hours to snuggle up in your sheets. But ever since you embarked on this trip, silence seemed to taunt you with snatches of memory. 

Never has quacking been such a welcoming sound. You almost miss Plum Juice’s fretting presence hovering over your shoulder, wrapping gauze around your wounds with a glare you could almost feel searing your back. Cutting as his words may have been, but his hands were unfailingly gentle.

Yuxiang’s constant prodding about your “secret beau” demands enough of your attention (and brain cells) that your mind can’t drift. You’d like to keep it that way -- she'd tease you to no end if she found out. 

Master would’ve fit right in, you know. 

You always loved the warmth of his study: paperwork scattered in myriad stacks across his desk, a smudge of ink on his cheek. You chuckled as you wiped it away, disrupting his single minded focus on some pompous noble’s letter.

"Tsk, tsk. The political head of your county, acting on the behalf of the emperor...what would he think of you now, with your food soul having to clean your face? What am I, your mother? Aren't you the 'parental' official?" You teased the magistrate once, monocle gleaming as he hid his smile in the folds of his sleeves.

“He can think what he likes; he had faith enough to appoint me once I had finished my imperial examination.” The magistrate huffed, but not without amusement as he procured two bowls. “It is cold, is it not? Auntie Li saw you traipsing through the snowdrifts, and made another upon witnessing me doing the same. Don’t dawdle, now -- it’s still warm.”

He always treated you as his equal, never demanding deference from you. Many Master Attendants treated their food souls as subservient, but he was different -- fretting over you like one of his own. 

He’d want you to live.

  
  


* * *

“They say the spirits of the dead are carried on the wind, fluttering things lighter than a peony’s petals. Some choose to wander mountain peaks. So many of them choose the shore to call their home.”

“Oh?” Chin cradled in your palm, you listen to the cadence of Yuxiang’s voice, the warm whisper of the sea. (It’s quieter, now that she’d given you a scolding scathing enough to last several lifetimes. It’d made heat crawl up your neck in a rare show of shame.) If there’s anything you can count on Yuxiang to tell, it’s a good tale.

“If you walk along the shore at night, you can hear the song of a guqin on the wind, soothing summer rain. The chatter of a pipa: bright as the untold joy of a father coming home, tender as the caress of a lover’s whisper.”

A father coming home, huh… You like the sound of this story. It fills you with light that spills from your lips you call laughter. 

“Sounds romantic.” The sand shifts beneath your feet, unsteady, but you feel like you’ve finally found solid ground.

“ _You’d_ know, wouldn’t you. You and your secret lover --” You don’t bother playing surprised. You’ve known her long enough to know that nothing ever gets past her. 

“You make it sound like one of those tawdry romance novels, rife with melodrama. Speaking of which… we should tear apart all their cliches, sometime. It’s been a while, has it not?”

“You think you’re so smooth, changing the subject like that? Of course. I won’t take no for an answer, but did you truly think you could hide from me?”

“Well --”

“If you want to start making amends, then I’d like to meet the man who’s charmed Light Kingdom’s infamous Phoenix.”

You don’t bother to hide your smile from Yuxiang, who’s smirking as she matches your strides. No matter the era, it seemed like Yuxiang remained the same. Stubborn woman, you thought, inexpressibly fond. 

“I’ll see to it.”

“Oh -- and don’t you dare go running off, now. I’ve heard good things about a dim sum place nearby -- their salt and pepper shrimp’s to die for. You’re not leaving until you have a taste, alright?”

“Oh? Who, pray tell, did you hear this glowing review from? Speaking of lovers, how _are_ things with that Spicy Gluten of yours?”

“You --”

“And where would I go, when my family’s waiting here for me?”

Yuxiang threatens to tie your hair into pigtails when you’re sleeping. She’ll snap pictures of the infamous Phoenix as blackmail, and all who hear your name will laugh in lieu of cowering. You tell her you’re a hypocrite, you know that? Look who’s dodging the question now, friend.

(Yuxiang doesn’t drop the facade of effortless elegance around anyone but the members of the Pawnshop, though there’s a catlike grace to her movements -- born from years of battle.)

She slings an arm around your shoulders and tugs at your plait, laughing as the children climb up the silken folds of her qipao in a chorus of quiet quacks. She strikes a deal: tell me all about your lover, and I’ll do the same for mine. 

You roll your eyes at her antics, but you’re smiling when she says we’d better hurry to that restaurant, now, and you can tell me all about him there. We’ve got a reservation at noon, and I don’t want to be lectured from Nozokyo to Nevras by Plum.

It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this young.

* * *

You know you’re dreaming when you see your Master in the middle of a wooden pier, watching the lotuses sway on the water. Whistling the same song, smiling that same smile.

You don’t allow yourself to linger too long. Every word tastes like goodbye on your tongue, but it is not the same ache.

In other words: you learn to let go.

* * *

Treasure all that is transient. Make a moment last millennia; remember it for another. To live as a food soul is largely solitary existence, for they always seem to end up alone. 

But no, you are beginning to realize. 

Pancake and Hawthorne are bickering over the last molten lava bun, but finally find a compromise in splitting it.

“Eh? Why are you so slow -- ack, the custard’s spilling!! Hot hot hot!!”

“Do it yourself, then! Ouch ouch ouchie --”

Yuxiang is a force to be reckoned with when bored, a whirlwind that sweeps up anyone in her path into her schemes. Looks like she’s somehow convinced Plum Juice into letting her braid his hair. 

He’s eating an egg custard tart with the blankest look on his face. It’s a long-suffering expression you’re accustomed to eliciting from him, sighing without words: “Why did I agree to this?” 

You watch their antics with no small amount of amusement. You’re all waiting for the servers to come with carts bearing an array of fresh dishes in steamer baskets to come to the table. The ducklings quack contentedly from where they’re hidden in your sleeves.

You have each other.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Ah, geez. Apparently I started this on March 16 of last year?? It feels like longer, because I haven't worked on finishing this until recently. Please feel free to cry with me about this found family. I have mixed feelings about this fic, to be honest, but I'm glad it turned out alright. Thank you for reading!
> 
>   
> Mildly OOC dialogue that could've been:
> 
> Yuxiang: Ah, yes. Let us spill the tea over tea. So! Tell me about your boyfriend.  
> Peking: Please. That sounds juvenile, don't you think?  
> Yuxiang: What? You want me to say "lover?" What is this, an 18th century period drama?
> 
> Pancake: Maybe handling this steaming hot lava bun with our bare hands wasn't a good idea?  
> Hawthorne Ball: Why're you just realizing this now??
> 
> Peking: The children? Yes, these are my emotional support ducklings.


End file.
